Dead of Winter

Louis glanced down at the directions Ollie had scribbled on a scrap of paper. Ollie had warned him the place was tough to find. He had also filled Louis in on what happened the first time the vets were questioned. The day after Pryce’s murder, Gibralter had ordered a sweep of all “organized local weirdos.” It had netted some local members of the Michigan Militia Corps, two broken-down renegades from the Aryan Nation, a handful of vegetarian survivalists stockpiling canned goods in anticipation of a nuclear holocaust, and a local nut who once used a sledgehammer to bash all the parking meters along Main Street.

It had also turned up seven veterans who were living on a tract of land sixty miles north of Loon Lake. The vets were brought into the station and “questioned extensively,” Ollie said. Gibralter had been unable to get a search warrant for the camp. But, Ollie told Louis, Gibralter remained suspicious that Pryce’s killer was among the seven men living in the woods.

Louis gazed out at the dense forest they were about to enter. The road seemed to be narrowing into a tunnel of gray clouds and hulking pines. He had a sinking feeling about this whole thing, that there was no way these men would talk. But after what Phillip Lawrence had told him yesterday about the emblems, he had to try.

“Turn here,” Louis said, spotting a small side road.

“Where?” Jesse asked.

“Stop! Right here. See the road?”

“Road? What fucking road?” Jesse shook his head. “We’ll never get up there without chains.

“Try,” Louis said.

The cruiser’s wheels spun on the unplowed road, making slow progress through the thick trees. About two miles in, they came to a gate that ran across the road. There was a large sign that said NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY.

“Now what?” Jesse asked.

“Now we walk,” Louis said, getting out of the car.

The road wended its way through the thick pines for another half mile. Finally, they could see the dark outlines of a building ahead. As they drew closer, the details of the compound came into focus. There were at least four well-constructed but spartan buildings, each with its own large generator. One sported a huge satellite dish on its roof. There was a shed with two Jeeps parked in front. The smell of a fire hung in the damp air.

The quiet was broken by the sharp barking of dogs.

“Jesus, those fuckers better be chained,” Jesse said, his hand going to his holster.

They heard a door slam. A dark figure came out of the nearest building. He stood looking out at them. Louis could see the slender outline of a rifle slung across the man’s back.

“Let me do the talking,” Louis said quietly as they walked toward the man.

“Better keep it to two syllables or less,” Jesse muttered.

The man had not moved. The dogs were in a pen, two German shepherds and something that looked like a Rottweiler with a bushy tail. They were barking insanely, bouncing against the chain-link fence like pinballs. The man shifted his M-16 down off his shoulder, letting it dangle at his side. He was wearing a down vest over a heavy navy sweater, fatigue pants and heavy black boots caked with mud. He was tall and burly. His face was hidden on top by a cap emblazoned with the Oakland Raiders logo and below by a thick red beard.

“Stop right there,” he said slowly.

Louis and Jesse came to a halt about ten yards away. The cacophany of barking was ear splitting.

“Quiet!” the man shouted suddenly.

The dogs stopped. They circled each other in agitation and then sat, ears pricked forward, snarling at Louis and Jesse.

“This is private property,” the man said.

“We know,” Louis said. “We just want to talk to you.”

Louis became aware of movement from the corner of his eye. He turned slightly to his left. Two men had materialized out of the woods. Both wore the same hybrid outfits of military garb and outdoor clothing. He heard a sound behind him and sensed the presence of others at his back.

“We don’t like cops here,” the man with the beard said.

Louis nodded. “Fair enough.”

Another man came out of the nearest building. He was shorter than the others, wiry, black. He stared at Louis. Louis held his eyes for a moment then his gaze dropped to the empty left sleeve of the man’s jacket. He looked back to the bearded man.

“We’re from Loon Lake. We’re investigating a murder,” Louis said.

“Two murders now,” the man said.

Louis stared at him. “Yes, two murders. Two police officers.” He waited, but the bearded man said nothing. “We think the killer had a connection to the military. We think -”

“You think,” the man interrupted, “that your killer is a wacko vet. And here we are, a whole camp of loonie-tunes right under your nose.” He smiled and hoisted the rifle up over his shoulder. “Now that’s one nifty piece of investigating there, Kojak.”

“Look, I just want to show you something,” Louis said, reaching into his pocket to pull out the plastic evidence bag. He came closer, holding it up. “You ever seen a card like this?”